Chapter Text
The automatic doors slid open with a cheerful ding, letting in a gust of cold air and two professional heroes. One bundled up in a red winter jacket, the other in a sleek sleeveless coat; faint steam rising from his cybernetic shoulders.
Genos’ internal GPS pinged as they stepped inside. A digital map of the supermarket blinked to life across his visor; aisles colour-coded, sale banners highlighted, time-estimates running in real-time.
“Sensei, we shall begin in produce,” he announced.
He took precisely one step forward before realising Saitama was no longer beside him. His teacher was already halfway across the store, making a beeline toward the meat section.
Genos’ route analysis froze mid-calculation.
“Come on, Genos! This way!” Saitama called back, waving one hand over his shoulder.
“…Correction,” Genos muttered, already recalculating their path. “We will begin in the meat aisle.”
---
By the time Genos caught up, Saitama was elbows-deep in the discount bin. Naturally, the cyborg had taken it upon himself to bring the cart. He scanned the aisles, noticing how crowded the area was getting. It wasn’t the most convenient spot to start their shopping, but if it pleased his teacher, Genos would go along with it. After all, this store had the best meat in City D, and it made sense that Saitama would want to grab some.
Before Genos could move closer, he felt a subtle shift in the air; a faint rustle behind him, soft footsteps, then a hush. His sharp hearing caught a low murmur.
“Is that… Demon Cyborg?”
Genos stiffened, his gaze flicking to the people around him. A few shoppers quickly turned away, suddenly fascinated by canned beans or discount rice they hadn’t noticed mere moments ago. Others risked a glance, then immediately diverted their eyes once they realised they’d been caught staring. One woman dropped a bag of noodles.
He knew exactly what was coming next and braced himself for it.
Adjusting his stance, he kept his expression neutral as the whispers grew louder. More heads turned in his direction, and the space around him grew more cramped. Genos made a conscious effort to ignore the rising commotion, focusing instead on the task at hand.
His systems recalibrated, marking slow-moving figures and narrowing the paths ahead. He scanned the aisles, gaze darting over the crowd. His eyes landed on the discount bin.
Saitama was gone.
He lost him. Again. He should’ve known better than to let his focus slip—
“Um, excuse me…” A small pink heart-shaped card was shyly thrust toward him. “Could you sign this?”
Genos froze.
His internal temperature spiked by three degrees. Cooling systems activated. Across his HUD, every proximity alert flashed red. Movement on all sides. The crowd was closing in. No viable exit.
“Uh, can I get a photo too?” someone called out.
“Is it true that you have blades in your arms? So cool!” another voice shouted. Too close.
A flash went off. Click—white light. Right in his eyes.
Genos gritted his teeth.
“Sign it!”
This is… absurd.
“Me next!”
Damn it, can’t they just—
“Wait, I don’t have a pen. Does anyone have a pen?!”
The squeak of shoes. Grind of cartwheels. Digital ping of a checkout scanner.
Too many inputs.
His hearing filters crackled.
If I don’t put an end to this, they’ll have me signing everything in sight.
A man holding a hero-themed cereal box shoved his way forward, breathless. “Can you sign this too? It’s for my kid! She loves you!”
His systems recalculated crowd density—no gaps. He was trapped. The bodies pressed inward, thick with heat and a sharp scent of sweat.
Genos’ optics flared. The faint thrum of his core deepened.
Click! In his face. Again.
His hands remained at his sides, locked down. But the hum grew louder, rising above the buzz of the crowd.
A shopping cart bumped into his side.
“Back off, all of you!” he barked.
It only seemed to encourage them. The crowd surged closer. Phones flashed. Voices overlapped—shouting, laughing, pleading. Carts scraped against each other. Someone reached out to touch him.
This was madness.
His patience snapped. Body temperature spiked past safe thresholds. Combat protocols slid into place. Systems primed for battle mode.
The crowd flinched back, but only slightly. Some faces lit up with excitement.
“I am busy!” Genos snarled. “This isn’t an autograph session. Disperse. Now. Or else—”
The air seemed to thicken, pressing against his frame. Just as he felt his core nearing a critical temperature, a voice cut through the chaos.
“Oi! Genos, you okay?”
Genos whipped around, scanning the crowd. A few aisles away, Saitama was waving one arm in the air, a massive slab of meat tucked under the other; a garish 80% SALE sticker plastered across it.
Blinking, the fury immediately drained from his system. Battle mode preparations disengaged with a soft hiss.
“Sensei!” He stormed over, cutting through the swarm of people—bumping a few of them with the cart in the process.
Some of the fans hesitated, clearly confused, but some stayed put, edging closer.
“Demon Cyborg, wait!” someone shouted.
“Wait… who’s that?”
“The guy in sandals?”
“That’s Caped Baldy, right? The fraud?”
“Sandals and socks. In mid-winter. No way that guy’s a top-tier hero.”
Genos halted mid-stride. The cartwheels screeched at the sudden stop.
His head turned slowly. One iris still glowed faintly.
“What,” he growled, “did you just say?”
The air stilled. A beat passed. Someone’s flip phone hit the floor.
“Genos,” Saitama called, already sensing the storm. “Hey. Hey—don’t—”
“These ignorant, ungrateful vermin,” Genos growled, voice low. “They don’t even comprehend how many times Sensei saved them. How much he—”
"Uh-oh."
Genos took a step forward.
Saitama could pinpoint the exact moment Genos tipped past reason. Nothing short of divine intervention was going to stop the crowd from getting flash-roasted or emotionally obliterated.
So he did the next best thing he could think of.
Saitama turned, straightened up, and shouted, “Genos! I found the butt wipes you like!”
He fished something out of his pocket.
Then held it up.
A garish pink pack of Super-Clean Xtreme.
The crowd went silent. Someone snorted. Someone else slowly lowered their phone.
Genos turned, but before he could react, the neon pink package came flying at him.
He caught it in one swift motion. The plastic crinkled in his grip. Thin, not heat-resistant. His blasters powered down automatically.
Across the aisle, Saitama raised his free hand and gave him a thumbs-up. “I got a different kind. Mint-scented.”
Genos looked as if he was about to say something.
Saitama beat him to it. “We still need toilet paper, right?” A bit louder than necessary. “Or did you use it all up again?”
His eyes flicked toward the crowd.
And just like that, the tension shattered. The fans, unsure whether to laugh or leave, opted for the latter. Phones were pocketed. Fangirls scattered. The man with the cereal box muttered something about heroes these days as he shuffled off.
Saitama trotted over. “Saw them by the discount rack. Figured you’d want some.”
Genos placed the wipes neatly into the cart.
“Thank you, Sensei. These are effective at reducing oil buildup between the elbow joints. The mint scent is also a welcome improvement.”
“No need,” Saitama said, holding up one hand.
As he stepped up beside Genos, ready to drop the discounted meat into the cart, a puff of hot air hit him. He paused, frowning slightly. For a moment, his gaze lingered; Genos stood stiff, eyes downcast.
Saitama scratched his cheek, shifting uncomfortably. “…Pretty crowded today, huh?”
Genos hesitated. “I allowed the situation to escalate. My apologies, Sensei.”
“Why are you apologising to me? Anyway, look what I grabbed in all the chaos.”
He dropped the slab of meat into the cart with a thud.
Then Saitama grabbed the cart handle and started wheeling it off. “C’mon, let’s go. I just saw a guy eyeing the last good cucumber.”
Genos fell into step beside him. No one else dared get in their way.
---
The cart rolled unevenly under Saitama’s loose grip, the soft clatter of the wheels punctuating each turn. The discounted meat he’d proudly discovered earlier took up most of the cart’s space, an impressive find, if Saitama’s subtle grin was anything to go by.
As they made their way toward the produce section, the two had been making progress through their list. They paused here and there, weighing options and occasionally debating what made for the smartest purchase. Genos had already singled out a specific model of gloves, insisting it was the best fit and quality.
Saitama leaned over. “Don’t we already have gloves at home?”
“Correct,” Genos replied. “But they’re beginning to wear out.”
He added the new pair to the cart without hesitation.
Saitama glanced at the label, then at the colour. Bright pink. Huh. Now that he thought about it, the gloves at home were pink too. And so was the apron. And the washing cloth.
Was Genos going for a coordinated look? Saitama wasn’t sure.
He also wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.
“That’s the one,” Genos said next, pausing in front of a wall of window cleaners. He pointed to a bottle labelled Ultimate Shine+, its plastic surface reflecting the fluorescent lights. “It contains 2-butoxyethanol and isopropanol in ideal ratios for breaking down grease.”
Saitama stopped the cart and squinted at the bottle. “That’s a lot of words. I dunno, I usually use this one.” He pointed at a different one; slightly cheaper, less shiny. “It worked fine.”
Genos stared, unblinking. “It lacks the compounds necessary for cutting through synthetic residue. Especially in corners.”
“If you say so.” Saitama shrugged. “You’ve been doing a good job sweeping the place lately anyway.”
“I am only doing what is necessary to maintain the apartment’s hygiene.” Genos replied quickly, trying to remain humble.
Saitama glanced at him sideways. “Sure, but it’s not like you’re perfect. I’ve seen you burn through more paper towels than you need.”
Genos straightened, alarmed. “Have I?”
“Yeah. You gotta fold ’em right.”
Veering off slightly, Saitama grabbed the cheapest pack on the shelf and dropped it into the cart. Without missing a beat, he continued his lecture. “Like this—” He mimed a quick tuck-and-press motion with his hands. “Makes the whole thing last longer.”
Genos watched intently, hands mimicking the movement. “I see,” he murmured. “That’s much more efficient. Sensei is so wise.”
The praise went unnoticed. Saitama was already drifting toward the next aisle, half-lidded eyes scanning for the next good deal.
Meanwhile, Genos checked his internal list—paper towels, cleaning supplies, gloves—all accounted for. He paused. They’d covered most of the store already, and it hadn’t even felt rushed. Between their detours and the fan incident, they were still ahead of schedule.
As Saitama rolled the cart ahead, Genos lingered for a moment. Somehow, Sensei always moved with ease; unbothered and deliberate. What looked like carelessness was actually something else.
A quiet kind of mastery.
Then, without warning, Saitama’s hand darted out, and something new dropped into the cart with a soft clink.
“Excuse me, Sensei,” Genos began, tone steady but unmistakably surprised. “I believe that wasn’t on the list.”
“Huh? Oh, that?” Saitama reached into the cart and held it up with a shrug.
Genos’ optics focused. The packaging was an assault of neon colours and clashing patterns. Across the top, oversized font declared Sweet Ecstasy! Love Simulator Candy: Vol. 3 in glittery letters. The centre featured an anime-style woman, nearly naked, lips parted and eyes wide in what appeared to be an attempt at allure. Her body was covered only by a few strategically placed candy wrappers. She reached one hand toward the viewer with a speech bubble that read: “Come play with me, Oni-Chan~!”
The image was… unsettling, to say the least.
Genos faltered. He could not determine the target demographic.
Was his Sensei… interested in this sort of thing?
That couldn’t be right. And yet—he’d grabbed it without hesitation. Could this be a hidden preference? A secret vice? Genos couldn’t rule it out. But then again—
“It’s a limited-time candy,” Saitama said. “King begged me to grab some if I ever saw it. Said it’s basically priceless.”
Genos paused. “King… asked Sensei to buy this?”
“Yup.” Saitama dropped it back into the cart. “So, of course, I had to.”
A brief silence followed.
After a moment, Genos said with perfect sincerity, “Sensei is so thoughtful.”
---
After a few detours through the aisles, they finally reached the produce section. Genos was busy examining a daikon for firmness, shape, and optimal starch content. Saitama wandered off again, returning a minute later, triumphantly holding up a single onion.
“Got one,” he said, dropping it into the cart. “We’re out, right?”
“That is not entirely accurate, Sensei,” Genos replied, tilting his head. “We do have onions. Five, to be precise.”
Saitama frowned. “What? I didn’t see any. I checked everywhere.”
“They’re in the living room. Next to the rice cooker.”
He blinked. “Why would you put them there?”
“They need to be in a cool, dry place with consistent airflow,” Genos replied. “The living room is the most suitable spot in the apartment.”
Saitama stared at him, then blinked again. “…Huh.”
Silence stretched between them.
“Why do we even have five onions, anyway?
Still focused on the daikon, Genos turned slightly. “Because Sensei puts one in the cart every time we go out shopping.”
Saitama opened his mouth, then closed it again, frowning deeper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Genos glanced at him, expression unreadable. “Sensei seemed certain we were out. I did not want to interrupt him.”
“But if we already had enough,” Saitama insisted, “wouldn’t letting me buy more be a waste of money?”
“Perhaps.” Genos hesitated. “But I thought correcting Sensei might seem disrespectful. Besides, onions are inexpensive, and they keep well. It wasn’t a significant loss.”
Saitama stared at him. Genos didn’t flinch, his focus now completely back on the daikon.
“They are nutritious and versatile,” he added. “We could make soup or a stir-fry tomorrow to mitigate our current surplus.”
Saitama exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple.
“Forget it,” he muttered, dropping the topic as they moved on.
---
They meandered toward the centre of the store, past a glowing display of winter-themed packaging. Pink and red accents glittered under the fluorescents. Banners fluttered with hearts and cursive letters advertising seasonal specials. Right in the middle stood a pyramid of delicate strawberry daifuku, each nestled in an individual box. The expensive kind: real fruit with fresh cream and fancy wrapping.
Saitama slowed.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, staring at the daifuku with a faint, unreadable look.
“Man. The good kind of strawberries never go on sale,” he muttered.
Genos turned to him.
Saitama scratched his cheek. “Can’t remember the last time I had one of those. Maybe as a kid. They used to sell them outside the train station for cheap…”
The display caught Genos’ attention.
He could buy them easily, as price was never a concern. But Sensei would always refuse anything “too fancy”. Like that time Genos brought home wagyū for 500,000 yen. He had been shocked at the price and told him not to spend so much. But when he ate it, he seemed… pleased.
Genos opened his mouth. “If—”
“Don’t,” Saitama cut him off, waving a hand. “Too expensive. The cheap ones are fine anyway.”
He hesitated. His eyes flicked toward the sparkly decorations surrounding the display.
“…And it’d be kinda weird.”
Genos tilted his head. “Why would it be weird?” The confusion clear in his voice.
But Saitama had already turned away, the cart squeaking as he made his way toward the cash register.
“Let’s wrap it up, Genos. We’re running out of time. Don’t wanna get stuck in these lines.”
Genos glanced back at the stand, a heart-shaped sign positioned above it.
The Perfect Gift for someone special.
His gaze lingered for a moment, then he followed.